


we've gotta come up ('cause there's no further for us to fall)

by starrydrowse



Series: rocktober 2020 [10]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Early Days, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Pre-Relationship, depressed!John, implied mutual pining, they're both trying their best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:47:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27077485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrydrowse/pseuds/starrydrowse
Summary: John can’t remember when the darkness first took root inside his chest.*Or, John is depressed. Roger tries his best to help.
Relationships: John Deacon & Roger Taylor, John Deacon/Roger Taylor
Series: rocktober 2020 [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1963549
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39
Collections: Dork Lovers Server Challenges





	we've gotta come up ('cause there's no further for us to fall)

**Author's Note:**

> idk what day of rocktober this is technically for because i've given up on actually finishing during october (because school really do be kicking my ass doe) but whatever, for this drabble (which is literally not even a drabble it, it somehow _really_ got away from me and ended up at like 2.3k lmao) have some blatant self-projection ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ aka i am very sad so i projected onto john like i always do sorry john bby ilu

John can’t remember when the darkness first took root inside his chest. It’s always been there, ever since he was little, lurking inside him, waiting for the opportunity to edge its way in and consume him. He’s learned, over the two decades or so he’s been on this earth, how to fend it off— or at least, how to coexist with it in a way that lets him function like a relatively normal human being.

It’s a delicate dance that he knows like the back of his hand by now; spending enough time on his own to avoid becoming overwhelmed by people and spiraling into anxiety, but not so much time alone that the darkness begin to creep in and fill his chest with lead and make him doubt his ability to ever get out of bed again; keeping busy enough to maintain some semblance of normalcy in his life and avoid giving his brain too much time to overthink, but not so busy that he gets so overwhelmed and anxious that he stops doing anything at all. It’s exhausting, but it’s a life that he’s become accustomed to.

Sometimes, though, the darkness begins to creep in so quietly that by the time he realizes, there’s nothing left to do but ride it out. He’s used to it by now; he knows that sometimes the bad days come, no matter how hard he tries to avoid them. Usually they don’t last very long— a few bad days here and there, maybe a bad week every so often. Normally it just takes time, and then it goes away.

This time feels different, though.

He’d felt it coming. He’s been overworking himself, he knows he has; the band has become much more of a commitment than he ever thought it would be, and trying to finish his Honours degree alongside it has been wearing on him more than he’d care to admit. So he isn’t surprised, really, when that dark and heavy feeling starts to take over once again. 

He just has to ride it out, he knows that. He does what he can to keep up the appearances of normalcy; he drags himself to band practice, forces himself to go to his classes, tries his best to look like he has it all together so as not to worry the others. Even then, he feels like a zombie, only really half present at any given time. Once he’s home at the end of the day, all he can do is fall into bed, overcome by an exhaustion he can feel deep in his bones.

It’s been this way for weeks now, many months. He can’t tell anymore, all the days seem to blur together into one endless stretch of time, each day lasting centuries and yet passing in the blink of an eye. And it’s only getting worse— he can feel it, creeping in and settling over him like a blanket made of lead, trapping him underneath. It’s as dark and heavy and painful as it is horribly comfortable.

He hates it. He _hates_ it. He feels stupid and weak and pathetic, lying here in bed at 8:30 on a Friday evening, utterly exhausted and yet unable to even sleep. He can hear the other three pottering around the flat, no doubt getting ready to go out for the evening. They’re laughing, joking around, and John is in bed, alone, feeling so terribly lonely and yet unable to just get himself up out of bed to join them. He’s too tired to even walk to the kitchen to make himself something to eat, despite his stomach grumbling for the last few hours, and he realizes that he can’t actually remember the last time he ate. He can’t quite bring himself to care.

He closes his eyes and tries to will himself to sleep. He’s exhausted, his eyes are heavy, but sleep won’t come. He doesn’t know how much time passes like that; enough for the sun to finish setting and the sky to go dark, the streetlight outside the window eventually flickering on and spilling orange light into the room. He wants to close the blinds, but he can’t bring himself to roll over and reach for the cord.

Suddenly the door to the bedroom opens, and the light flicks on as Roger comes in. It’s Roger’s room as well, they share it— Freddie and Brian share the other— and John knew Roger would be in eventually, but it still startles him. He groans quietly and shoves his face into his pillow as the harsh light stings his eyes.

“Oh!” Roger sounds surprised. “Shit, sorry Deaky, I thought you were out!”

John just grunts, squinting at Roger in the bright light. Roger’s clearly just come from the shower; there’s a towel slung low around his hips, droplets of water clinging to his chest. John feels his cheeks heat up slightly. Roger, thankfully, switches off the overhead light and pads over to the table between their beds to turn on the lamp instead, filling the room with a softer light that doesn’t make John’s head hurt quite so much.

“Have you been here all night?” Roger asks, still a little bewildered.

“Yeah,” John croaks. “Was just napping.”

He watches Roger make his way over to his dresser, rummaging through his drawers for something to change into.

“Time to get up then,” Roger grins. “Come on, we’re all going down to the pub for a bit.”

“Not tonight,” John tells him without even thinking, “‘m too tired.”

Roger frowns at him, slipping off the towel around his hips and using it to start to dry off properly. John looks away quickly, his eyes snapping up to the ceiling, the tips of his ears burning. Roger’s never cared much about modesty, which would be fine, really, except that it doesn’t exactly help the ‘helplessly pining for my heterosexual roommate’ dilema John’s been facing for the last year or so.

“Come on,” Roger tries, “you haven’t come out with us in ages, Deaks.”

“I know,” John murmurs. “I’m sorry. I will soon, just not tonight.”

“Are you sick or something?”

“No, no, ‘m just tired.”

“You’re always tired lately.”

John doesn’t have anything to say to that. When he looks over again, Roger is thankfully dressed. He’s wearing his favourite tight black trousers and a sheer top, and John has to stop himself from staring.

“Is it us?” Roger asks suddenly.

“What?”

“Do you not like hanging out with us anymore? Is that it?”

He looks hurt, almost like a kicked puppy, and John can’t quite understand why Roger is so put out by him just refusing to go out drinking.

“No,” John shakes his head, “no, of course not. I’m just really tired. I’ve been busy lately, I just need to sleep.”

Roger looks like he doesn’t quite believe him. “Whatever,” he mutters finally. And then he’s gone, closing the door behind him, leaving John horribly alone.

It’s what John wanted. He’d wanted to be left alone. But suddenly, it just feels like absolute shit. 

He feels hot tears stinging his eyes, and he curls over onto his side, squeezing them shut. There’s a gaping hole inside his chest, tearing him open, and it aches in a way that John doesn’t know how to describe. He’s lonely. He doesn’t _want_ to be alone, not really. He wants to be held. He wants to go out and have a good time with his friends, he doesn’t want to push them away even though he knows that’s exactly what he’s doing. He wants to feel happy, or normal, or just _anything_ that isn’t the crushing emptiness that’s consuming him now.

Eventually he hears the front door to the flat slam closed, and he knows they’ve all left, and he can’t help the sob that catches in his throat. He’s really, truly alone now, and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt worse.

He doesn’t know how long he cries. It must be an hour, at least. He doesn’t like crying, not usually, but at least it’s _something._ A release of emotions. Maybe he’ll feel better after this, now that he’s cried. He doesn’t think he will, but he hopes. His pillow is wet with tears and his nose is running and his head is pounding by the time his sobs finally taper off, and he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, tries to steady his breathing. He wonders what the hell is wrong with him, why he can’t just be fucking normal.

He’s so in his head, that he doesn’t realize somebody is home until the door to the bedroom is opening.

Roger is standing in the doorway, and he looks so concerned that it makes John’s heart ache painfully in his chest. John doesn't like worrying people. He does his level best to be somebody who's always in control, who can handle himself, who doesn’t make the people he loves worry about him. He can handle himself— that’s the way it’s always been, that’s what he’s always done. He never wants anybody to see him like this, _especially_ Roger.

“Are you alright?” Roger asks, finally stepping into the room.

“Yeah.”

“What’s wrong?” Roger rephrases, realizing it was a stupid question.

“Nothing,” John shakes his head, wiping at his eyes, “I’m fine.”

“You’re obviously not.”

“I’m fine,” John repeats, drawing in an unsteady breath. He shifts to sit up on the edge of the bed, hoping it will make him seem a little less pathetic.

“I don’t believe you.”

John swallows, his eyes darting up to meet Roger’s for a moment before quickly looking away.

“Where are Brian and Freddie?” John asks in a valiant effort to change the subject.

“Still at the pub.”

“Why aren’t you there with them?”

“I was worried about you.”

Roger says it so genuinely, but it makes something ugly twist inside John’s stomach.

“I don’t need you to worry about me,” he says.

It catches Roger off guard for a moment, but after a beat he just says, “Well, too bad. I’m going to do it anyway.” When John’s eyes snap up Roger doesn’t back down, staring back at him defiantly. “You’re my friend, and I care about you. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong.”

“That’s bullshit.” Roger scoffs, his eyes flashing. When John opens his mouth to retort, Roger cuts him off. “Don’t give me any more excuses. You’re not just tired, John. You haven’t been yourself in _weeks,_ we’ve all noticed it! If there’s something wrong just _tell_ me, I can help you!”

“No you can’t!” John shouts, and he surprises even himself with the intensity of it. Roger looks almost frightened for a moment, and it’s as if all the red-hot anger burning a hole in the pit of John’s stomach dissipates at once, instantly replaced by a horrible knot of guilt. 

There’s hurt in Roger’s eyes, and John is certain that he’s about to leave. He’s positive that he’s finally managed to push away the person who cared about him enough to notice that something was wrong, to check in with him, to try to help him. It’s what he deserves— he wanted to be alone, so he’ll be alone. John casts his eyes down to the floor, gripping the edge of the mattress tightly, waiting for Roger to leave.

Roger doesn’t leave, though. In fact, he just steps closer, until he’s standing directly in front of John.

“Lie down,” he says.

“Rog—”

“Do it.”

John swallows, but after a moment he listens, scooting back to lie down again, his back to the wall. Roger doesn’t say anything else, he just climbs into John’s bed silently, not waiting for permission before he presses himself as close to John as he can get and wraps his arms around him as tightly as he can.

John is tense, for a moment, but Roger doesn’t back down, and soon John finds himself relaxing in Roger’s embrace, letting out a shaky breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

Roger is warm and solid against him, and he’s squeezing John so tightly and not letting go, and John can’t help but close his eyes and bury his face in Roger’s neck and just let himself be held. Roger smells like cigarettes and cologne, and he’s rubbing John’s back slowly and steadily, and this feels _right,_ more right than anything John’s felt in a long time. Minutes pass as they lay there like that in silence, until finally, Roger speaks.

“I just want to help you,” he says, his voice a little unsteady and impossibly soft, and John swallows around the painful lump in his throat.

“I know,” he says quietly, “I’m sorry. I know.”

“Whatever’s going on, you can talk to me. I’ll understand.”

“I don’t even know if I understand it,” John says weakly, and he feels Roger’s hand settle in his hair, stroking slowly. “I don’t even know what’s wrong with me, I—” John cuts himself off, biting his lip and willing himself not to break down again.

Roger is quiet for a long moment then, like he’s thinking. Finally, he says, “Well… we’ll figure it out together, then.”

He says it’s the most natural thing in the world, like it’s easy, even though John knows that it isn’t. But when Roger puts it like that it at least sounds _possible._ Maybe that’s as good as it’s going to get right now, John thinks. Just a possibility of things getting better, someday. It’s something he can hang onto, at least.

“Okay?” Roger says.

John squeezes his eyes shut, breathes in and then out as steadily as he can. He focuses on the feeling of Roger’s arms around him, warm and solid and real. He nods.

“Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to leave your thoughts and comments below, and come talk to me on my [tumblr](https://starrydrowse.tumblr.com/) :)


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